


The Picnic; or, the Drawbacks of Loving an Angel

by sorrowfulcheese



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 01:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrowfulcheese/pseuds/sorrowfulcheese
Summary: Post-Armageddon't, Aziraphale lures Crowley out for a picnic. It doesn't go remarkably well.





	The Picnic; or, the Drawbacks of Loving an Angel

The worst part of having an angel around was the _birds_.  
  
They appeared out of nowhere, landed everywhere, and sang incessantly, whenever Aziraphale was out of doors and remained still for more than a few moments. It was like being in one of those animated movies where everyone sang about their feelings.  
  
Songbirds filled the tree overhead and the hedges on either side of the garden, and on the grass they had surrounded the blanket on which Crowley was currently lounging. The noise was equivalent to the loudest cocktail party he'd ever attended, only no one was serving drinks.  
  
A finch dropped down to the blanket and twisted its head to peer up at him. Crowley drew down his sunglasses with one finger, and hissed softly. The finch took immediate flight.  
  
"Really," Aziraphale chided gently, "was that _necessary_?"  
  
"You'd rather I miracled them all away? Pesky buggers. It's like a dozen calliopes all out of tune." He shoved his glasses back into place, rested his head on one fist, looked morosely up at Aziraphale.  
  
"Oh, very well." Aziraphale made a small gesture with one hand, and the birds flew away in a rush of wings and air—though a few dozen remained, perched in the tree and in the hedges, still singing. Still, the volume was at least tolerable, and Crowley could hear himself think. "Better?"  
  
"Much. Thank you, Angel."  
  
With a brief smile Aziraphale returned his attention to the basket he'd brought. He arranged tiny sandwiches and scones and cakes on a gilt-edged china plate. He set the plate on the blanket between himself and Crowley, and reached into the basket again. Crowley pointedly looked away from the food, stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. The sun was warm and the sound and smell of green things growing was pleasant and soothing. Everything in the garden had been perfectly trimmed; this place was being cared for. No wilderness picnic for Aziraphale; here they were in the back garden of a neat little cottage nestled in a tiny village in the South of Nowhere.  
  
"Nice place," he noted aloud. "You never said who lives here."  
  
Aziraphale cleared his throat. "As agreed upon," he began, and paused, and Crowley looked up. With a flourish, Aziraphale withdrew a bottle from the basket, held it so Crowley could see the label.  
  
"Ah, wonderful," Crowley said, and stretched out his free hand for it.  
  
"You did promise," Aziraphale warned him, and held the bottle just out of reach.  
  
Crowley scowled. "I know," he grumbled. "I haven't forgotten." He opened and shut his hand quickly in a grabbing motion and chortled softly as Aziraphale handed him the bottle, its cork already miracled away.  
  
This, he mused, as he tilted the bottle and drank deeply from it, was definitely a benefit of having his angel around. Aziraphale would never give him anything but the best to drink. Even if it was something that hadn't been in existence for a few decades. Or a century.  
  
He sucked his lower lip, savoured the dark juicy taste of the wine, and sighed.  
  
The wine was a bribe of sorts. Aziraphale had somehow manipulated him into agreeing to the picnic—worse, into agreeing to eat whatever Aziraphale would provide. He hoped he'd be drunk enough by the time they began eating to be able to pretend to enjoy it, for his angel's sake.  
  
He glanced down at the food again, as Aziraphale surrounded the plate with little pots of jam and one of what looked like clotted cream; into each pot Aziraphale wordlessly set a tiny spoon.  
  
Aziraphale had been reserved and quiet during the entire drive down, which worried Crowley a little. He'd given Crowley directions now and again but for the most part had been dreamily distracted, watching the scenery through the Bentley's window. He hadn't even chided Crowley on his driving speed.  
  
"Now," Aziraphale said at last, "everything is quite _small_. So it shouldn't be torturous."  
  
"All right." Crowley took another drink of wine and eyed the plate. "Where do I start?"  
  
"First of all, sit up," Aziraphale told him.  
  
"Aw, what?"  
  
"Please, Crowley. I want—"  
  
At that, his body moved almost without will. He shifted to sit cross-legged, balanced the wine bottle against his leg, and waited. Anything Aziraphale _wanted_ , Crowley provided. Anything for his angel. Anything to make him smile, to make his eyes shine the way only Aziraphale's could. _Anything_.  
  
"—to be able to see your reactions," Aziraphale finished, and a flash of delight shot across the space between them. It hit Crowley in the gut like a—whatever hit one in the gut, he supposed. An anvil, maybe? That was it. It felt like an anvil. "Thank you." Aziraphale shifted to kneel facing him, ever so proper, the food between them; he tugged at his waistcoat to straighten it, rested his hands on his knees. "I think you might find some of these a little unusual—"  
  
"How so?" Crowley narrowed his eyes.  
  
"Well," Aziraphale said, and inhaled a little. "I made them myself."  
  
Crowley couldn't help the expression on his face. "Angel," he said, "you know I went off food even _before_ —"  
  
Aziraphale pursed his lips tightly, raised an eyebrow, and Crowley shut his mouth and slouched. "I would suggest you have _faith_ ," Aziraphale said sternly, "but we both know your stance on that."  
  
"Same as yours, anyway," Crowley muttered. "Let's get on with it, then."  
  
"Take your sunglasses off."  
  
"Angel."  
  
"Please."  
  
Crowley pulled off the sunglasses, hung them from the neckline of his shirt, held out his hands as if to say _See?_ He blinked a couple of times to let his eyes adjust, and then he defiantly took a very long drink of the wine, licked his lips and glared.  
  
Aziraphale smiled sweetly, and it hurt him a little, the pleasurable hurt that he had come to know as simply part of the love. It made him ache inside, made him want desperately for more. Made him want to make his angel smile at him a thousand times, a thousand pure flaming steel daggers to his heart.  
  
"Are you all right?" Aziraphale's sudden anxiety poked holes in the pleasure, deflated it and brought him back to the present. "It's not too bright for you here, is it?"  
  
Crowley shook his head. "It's nothing," he muttered. "Just thinking."  
  
"If you're _sure_."  
  
"Ngh." Crowley gestured toward the plate.  
  
Aziraphale selected one of the tiny sandwiches. "This," he said, "is egg and cress."  
  
"Don't care what it is, really," Crowley told him. "I'm only doing this because you tricked me into it."  
  
"I hardly tricked you," Aziraphale informed him, and lifted the sandwich delicately between his thumb and first two fingers. "I merely suggested that we have a picnic."  
  
"You tricked me into promising to eat it."  
  
"You have always been perfectly capable of making decisions, whether or not you are inebriated."  
  
Crowley opened his mouth to protest, and Aziraphale popped the whole sandwich in without further preamble. Startled, Crowley bit down, and he froze for a moment.  
  
He was not sure what he had expected from a sandwich made by Aziraphale, whose domestic talents were, to say the least, severely lacking. He certainly hadn't expected an earthy, almost nutty flavour from the bread, blended with the salty softness of the egg and a peppery hint from the cress. He chewed, swallowed, stared at Aziraphale, who watched him intently. Uneasy, Crowley licked his lips.  
  
"W-what do you think?" Aziraphale wondered, desperately trying to contain his eagerness.  
  
_No use in trying, Angel_ , Crowley wanted to say. Whenever Aziraphale felt anything particularly strongly he broadcast it to the world. Probably the galaxy.  
  
Maybe only to Crowley.  
  
"How did you do that?" Crowley demanded, and pointed at the plate.  
  
"Did you like it?" Aziraphale was as tense and excited as a puppy. He picked up a second little sandwich. "Here, try this one." His eyes widened as Crowley caught his wrist. "Oh," he said, softly. "You _didn't_ like it?"  
  
"It was _good_ ," Crowley informed him truthfully. " _How did you do it_?"  
  
Pink rose up to Aziraphale's cheeks, tinged his ears, and his eyes lit up. Crowley stifled a shiver. "You _did_ like it! I'm so glad. I was _worried_ , you know—"  
  
"Angel."  
  
Aziraphale blinked. "Yes?"  
  
"You're avoiding my question."  
  
"I'm not, not really. This one is salmon, with a little cucumber."  
  
Crowley kept hold of Aziraphale's wrist. "Angel," he said, softer.  
  
Aziraphale pursed his lips and sighed and looked as though he was fighting with himself over whether or not to answer. "I know you don't much enjoy eating," he said at last. "But it can be such a _pleasurable_ thing. I just—" He slumped a little. "I hoped to share with you what it's like for _me_. Because you always just watch me eat and you shouldn't miss out—"  
  
Crowley pulled firmly on Aziraphale's wrist, drew him forward on his knees, until their noses nearly touched. "I _like_ watching you eat," he said, "simply _because_ you take such pleasure in it. Do you understand that?"  
  
Aziraphale's eyes were wide with surprise. "No," he said.  
  
Six thousand odd years, and he was still so _clueless_. So clever; so utterly stupid.  
  
"When you are happy, Angel, you—" How was he to put it? "You spill over."  
  
"Spill over?"  
  
"Enough that I can feel it."  
  
Aziraphale laughed weakly. "Feelings don't _work_ like that, Crowley," he began.  
  
Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale's wrist. "I am telling you," he said sternly, and paused for effect. "I can _feel_ it. I know exactly what you feel when you're eating something you like to eat. The way you enjoy a meal is entirely different to the way you enjoy a pudding is worlds away from the way you feel when you have a cup of cocoa while you're reading. But it's all pleasure, and when I'm with you, I can feel it. And I enjoy feeling you enjoy it."  
  
Aziraphale watched him for a long moment. "I've often wondered," he murmured. "You've never said no, when I've asked you to a meal."  
  
"Of course not," Crowley said, and released his hand.  
  
"Even so," said Aziraphale, as he sat back on his heels and rubbed his wrist, still holding the sandwich. "Even so, feeling it second-hand, so to speak, isn't the _same_ as enjoying it yourself."  
  
"Well, I've no need of it." Crowley waved dismissively, untangled his legs and stretched to lie on his side once more, his head propped up on one elbow, the wine cradled carefully against his chest. He slid his sunglasses back on.  
  
"So that's it," Aziraphale said, and his expression collapsed in disappointment. "Just one bite, and you're done?"  
  
Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Did you plan to hand-feed me the entire plate?"  
  
"I had hoped a few things, at least." He stared at the sandwich in his hand, set it back down on the plate and sighed. "Oh, I should have _known_ this was a terrible idea. I'm so sorry, Crowley. I've misjudged this whole thing entirely—" He made a sweeping gesture with his hand and the picnic disappeared, blanket and all, though the wine remained. He stood and straightened his waistcoat, brushed imaginary detritus from his trousers, picked up his coat and sighed. "You may as well return to London, then," he said at last. "I am truly sorry."  
  
Crowley sat up, alarmed. "What's that mean," he said, " _I_ might as well return to London? What about you?"  
  
"Oh," Aziraphale said, a trifle unhappily, "I'm—staying—er, here." He gestured toward the cottage.  
  
Crowley stood with him, the bottle in one hand. "For how long?" he said, and tried to keep his voice even.  
  
The sudden wave of utter sadness that washed over him threatened to make him throw up. He clenched his jaw and steadied himself in the wake of it.  
  
_Fucking overrated, emotions,_ he snarled to himself, and worse that he felt all of Aziraphale's bad ones as well as the good.  
  
"Angel?"  
  
Aziraphale sighed. "I've bought this place," he said, gloomily. "It isn't much, but it's plenty large enough for my books. And the garden really is lovely. Quite shady over here," he gestured to their immediate area. "And perhaps I'll put in some flowers later." He swung his hand in the direction of the rest of the garden.  
  
"When the—" Crowley circled around to face him. "When did you have time to buy a cottage?" he snapped. "You don't even drive. How did you even get down here?"  
  
"One can hire a car, you know," Aziraphale told him, reproving. "It's hardly difficult." But he would not look Crowley in the eye.  
  
"You love your shop," Crowley went on, with a wide gesture in the general direction of London.  
  
"I love my _books_ ," Aziraphale told him. "The shop was simply a place to keep them. Now I have this."  
  
"You love _London_. You love visiting all the restaurants, and—and—"  
  
_And what am I going to do if you're living down here with your books and flowers and stupid birds?_  
  
"I can, of course, visit," Aziraphale said, though his words sounded hollow. At last he looked up at Crowley. "And, naturally, you are welcome to—to visit here, any time you like." He was guarding himself again, keeping his feelings all tucked in, the way he had on the drive down. "There are three bedrooms, though of course at least one will be used for my books." He inhaled, squared his shoulders, feigned a smile. "Would you like to see the place, before you go?"  
  
Crowley watched him a long moment. "Yes," he said quietly. "I would."  
  
Aziraphale nodded. "Come in, then." He opened the door and led Crowley in through a little mud room, where he paused to remove his shoes and hang his coat on a hook. Crowley took off his sunglasses, followed Aziraphale into a surprisingly bright and well-appointed kitchen.  
  
"Those look new," Crowley noted, with a gesture to the shiny, very modern appliances.  
  
"They are," Aziraphale agreed. They continued through the kitchen. Crowley left his bottle on one of the countertops. Aziraphale gestured down a short hallway. "Bedrooms," he said. "Of course they're not furnished yet." He led Crowley on to an empty sitting room that looked out over the quiet street. From a distance, Crowley heard a sheep bleating, and pursed his lips. Aziraphale stopped, clasped his hands behind his back and stared out the window. "That's it," he said softly. "As I mentioned, it isn't much. I am sorry, Crowley, for dragging you down here."  
  
But he _hadn't_ dragged him down here. Regardless of his state when he'd agreed to the picnic, Crowley had _agreed_ to come. He'd _wanted_ to come. Anywhere his angel wanted to go, Crowley would take him. Anytime.  
  
And Aziraphale had made food for him—actually made food for him that hadn't tasted like sand on his tongue. And Aziraphale had been so desperately sad at Crowley's reaction to it.  
  
Truly, Crowley realised, _he_ was the stupider of the two, wasn't he? He'd gotten so used to Aziraphale's obliviousness over the centuries that he'd grown blind to his own.  
  
He circled Aziraphale again to face him, and the blue eyes locked on his. Crowley held out a hand; Aziraphale hesitated before setting his own soft palm on Crowley's. Crowley twined their fingers together, slid his free hand down to Aziraphale's hip, and gently walked him backward until Aziraphale was quite securely pinned to the wall. Crowley lowered his head until their brows touched, and he sighed. "Angel," he murmured.  
  
"Y-yes?" Aziraphale sounded a little breathless.  
  
"Angel, I'm the one who needs to apologise."  
  
"I'm sure I don't know what _for_."  
  
"For misreading you."  
  
Aziraphale's brow wrinkled. "I don't know what you mean."  
  
"The food," Crowley said. "How did you make it good?"  
  
Aziraphale swallowed. "Oh," he said. "That. I—I may have—" He squirmed just a little. "I may have cursed it a bit."  
  
Crowley stared at him. "Cursed it," he repeated.  
  
"Just a bit," Aziraphale hurried to say. "Most food gets blessed, and I didn't think that would do for you, at all. So I just—I cursed it. A bit. I'd hoped it would make it palatable for you. It just pains me so much that you can't know the joy—"  
  
"Angel, we just discussed this. I _do_ know it."  
  
"Oh, Crowley, I just wanted—I wanted to do something _nice_ for you. Can't you understand that? You've done so many lovely things for me. Hamlet—that was wonderful. And France, that was—" Aziraphale blushed slightly. "You didn't have to do it, but you did, and I don't think I thanked you properly. And then my _books_ —"  
  
"And you took a holy water bath for me," Crowley reminded him wryly.  
  
"And you stood in the flames of hell for me."  
  
"And would again, a thousand times."  
  
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale said again, and sighed. "I really was hoping that you would be able to enjoy the picnic. And that maybe—maybe—"  
  
"Maybe," Crowley interrupted, "that second bedroom, the one that _isn't_ going to be full of your books, might be a temptation?"  
  
"Maybe." He bit his lower lip and Crowley clenched his jaw, tightened his fingers in Aziraphale's, pressed them both just a little harder to the wall. "I would never ask that you give up your flat," Aziraphale went on, hurriedly. "But I—you—"  
  
"Did you buy this place," Crowley asked, tilting his head so his lips were very near Aziraphale's, "for the garden?"  
  
"The garden," Aziraphale breathed, "was only a secondary consideration. I wanted room for my books, and—for you. If you wanted to come here with me."  
  
"I accept," Crowley said. "On one condition."  
  
"W-what condition?" Aziraphale's cheeks were bright pink now, and a little shine had returned to his eyes.  
  
"The second bedroom will be a _guest_ bedroom."  
  
"Oh," Aziraphale squeaked. "Yes. All right. But—you know I don't sleep."  
  
"Maybe you ought to learn."  
  
"I—all right. Yes. I can try. I've done it before, you know."  
  
"Hng." Crowley touched Aziraphale's lips with his own. They were soft, softer even than he had imagined, and his angel's breath was sweet. Aziraphale pushed himself up on his stockinged toes and his free hand slid up to cup the back of Crowley's head. Crowley darted his tongue into Aziraphale's mouth and this elicited a moan that he was sure might melt his entire spine.  
  
When at last they pulled free of one another, Aziraphale said, "Oh," and looked up at Crowley. He had begun to glow a little, and the pure serene contentment that wafted from him threatened to knock Crowley into next Tuesday. "That was _lovely_ ," Aziraphale said, and licked his lips.  
  
"It was," Crowley agreed. He dropped another kiss on Aziraphale's mouth, one on his nose, one on his forehead, and he sighed. "I'm sorry I upset you, Angel," he murmured.  
  
"You didn't," Aziraphale told him. "It was me. I hadn't thought it through."  
  
"Seems to me you did rather well."  
  
"I—" Aziraphale hesitated, then smiled at him. "Thank you."  
  
"Let's head back to London, for now," Crowley suggested. "Grab a few things, and come back tomorrow."  
  
"We'll need to hire a lorry for our things," Aziraphale warned him. "Can't let the neighbours be suspicious of how it all got here."  
  
The neighbours, Crowley thought, were free to go hang. But what his angel wanted, his angel would have. He made a non-committal sound and finally released Aziraphale, who immediately began to straighten his tie and waistcoat and cuffs. Crowley watched him, with pleasure.  
  
While Aziraphale retrieved his coat and shoes, Crowley wandered back outside and lounged against the side of the Bentley. A grey head wearing a blue kerchief popped up above a hedge.  
  
"Oh, hello! Are you with Mr Fell?"  
  
Crowley turned his head to look. She was perhaps forty, maybe fifty; he wasn't good with estimating human age. But she was bright-eyed and gave off a friendly sort of aura. "What?"  
  
"Mr Fell," she repeated. "The gentleman who bought the place. Are you with him?"  
  
Crowley gestured toward the cottage. "He'll be right along."  
  
She smiled, and her eyes crinkled. "He's really quite sweet. We've all been terribly excited that someone finally bought the old place. Can't wait to have a neighbour here again."  
  
Crowley nodded. "How long ago did he buy it?" he wondered.  
  
"Oh, months, now," she told him. "It was a right mess when he did, too. The old fellow who lived here before, he passed on about ten years back, and it wasn't cared for after that. No children, you know," she added in an appropriately serious tone. "But then Mr Fell came and bought it, and he's done a wonderful job with the whole thing. Do you know when he plans to move in?"  
  
"Ah," Crowley said. "Soon." _Months_. When was Aziraphale going to tell him about it?  
  
_Today, fool,_ he reminded himself.  
  
"And will _you_ be coming with him?" She was about as subtle as—what was it that was not subtle? Trains, he seemed to recall. In any case, he found himself suddenly glad to feed the local gossip. That sort of thing invariably led to bigger and better opportunities for temptation.  
  
Crowley flashed his most charming smile. "Oh, yes."  
  
"How lovely," she exclaimed.  
  
"Clara!" The call came from somewhere behind her, and she rolled her eyes.  
  
"That'll be my husband, wanting his tea," she said with a sigh. "I'd better get on with it. Well, it's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr—er—"  
  
"Crowley," he said. "And a pleasure meeting you, Clara."  
  
With a jaunty wave she vanished behind the hedge. Aziraphale exited the cottage at that moment, and moved to the other side of the Bentley.  
  
"Did I hear you talking with someone?" he wondered.  
  
Crowley gestured to the Bentley's doors and they unlocked; he slid into the driver's seat, and Aziraphale settled in to his left. "Just one of the neighbours," he noted as the Bentley roared to life. "Nice lady. Name of Clara."  
  
"I've met her," Aziraphale said. "Chatty thing."  
  
"Indeed." He turned to look at Aziraphale, reached across the car and grasped his chin. He leaned forward, pulled Aziraphale toward him, and kissed him soundly, once, on the mouth. Aziraphale's delight spilled over again, made Crowley shiver in pleasure.  
  
That would tide him over until they reached London. Another drawback to loving his angel: Aziraphale's happiness was utterly addictive, and Crowley never had been able to get enough.  
  
The Bentley shifted gears, and they sped away.


End file.
